


the ecstasy of loneliness

by vipereyed



Series: invisible splendors and intangible delights [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Post-War, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 05:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17380820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: Yet two months, three days, six hours, and forty six seconds later since that fateful morning on the second of May and Draco began to realize – life doesn’t work that way. Things have a funny way of not falling into place.





	the ecstasy of loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! this is my first contribution to the drarry fandom here despite being in fandom for al ong time; i usually write hp next gen or marauders, and very rarely showcase my work. this is the first in a series i have going on, and is pre slash. consider this a prequel of sorts as well as a character study. i wanted the focus of this to be draco and how he copes after the war and how everything affects him. aspects of this story are deeply personal as well - while i havent survived a war (thankfully) i have felt like draco, and have dealt with my feelings in a similar way; the second bathroom scene was taken from one of my own experiences. i based alihotsy off of a host of muggle drugs. WARNING for drug / alcohol abuse throughout this story. if you feel this can make you relapse, or set you back in any way, please do what's best for you - even if it is not reading this story. make sure you have a good support system. the second installment of this will be much lighter in comparison and feature more harry and finally, drarry! not onesided, woo! i love putting my characters through angst a little too much, but i felt draco escaping the war unscathed was very unrealistic. now on with the story! feel free to leave comments and kudos are always appreciated, as is concrit <3 title is taken from Virginia Woolf, 'Mrs Dalloway'

_after a while, even the falling is gentle - Catherynne M. Valente_

It had been sixty four days, six hours, twenty three minutes and forty six seconds since it all ended.

He didn’t truly remember it all, of course. Like everything else that happened during that time, he could only remember it in snippets; the crackle of dark magic in the air, electric, even after his father’s Lord fell. The collective sobs of relief upon realizing that the lifeless heap on the ground belonged to a genocidal maniac and not Potter. His mother’s arms tight around him and his father both, nails digging into their flesh as though she was too afraid to let the both of them out of her sight for even a second.

Draco couldn’t recall a time his father had hugged him, prior to that. It unnerved him slightly.

At the time, the end of the war felt hopeful. Just as it was theorized that the Big Bang created the universe, Draco assumed that with the reign of terror effectively over, his life was finally free to start living. The Manor would become a home again, a home where he wouldn’t wake in cold sweats after hearing blood-curdling screams in the cellar, where he would be free to roam its halls without hearing a madman murmuring affectionate, serpentine whispers to his pet.

The death of Voldemort was to bring the birth of light to his life, no matter if Draco came out on the wrong side of the war. His mission was unsuccessful, but the only one that mattered wasn’t; his family was alive, after all, and perhaps now was the time he could finally be happy.

Yet two months, three days, six hours, and forty six seconds later since that fateful morning on the second of May and Draco began to realize – life doesn’t work that way. Things have a funny way of not falling into place.

* * *

 

“Mistress requests that the Young Master Malfoy be joining her for breakfast time in the drawing room at once!” The _pop_ that accompanied Tilly’s apparating into his quarters startled Draco out of his sleep before he was cognizant of what the elf wanted of him; Tilly, for her part, was not startled at all to be on the receiving end of Draco’s trembling wand, nor by the cold sweat matting silvery blond hair to his forehead. This was part of their daily routine now, and the elf had stopped commenting on it after the third time around. A small mercy, but it saved what remained of his pride, all the same.

Following the next scene in this now-scripted routine they had perfected over the course of the last few months, Draco gave a curt, silent nod and wordlessly Apparated to the drawing room. A boy that everyone believed survived the war, but perhaps died long before it reached its end, would not have left that bedroom until his hair was perfected and pajamas were exchanged for designer robes.  Draco couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to do so. Styling his hair and getting dressed were not difficult tasks, but they were tasks that required energy and he couldn’t break through the cloud of apathy that surrounded him, like a shroud, enough to summon and sustain that energy.

“Your hair’s getting long, darling.” His mother’s voice filtered through to him as he joined her in the drawing room, taking a seat on the ornate sofa opposite her as the elves rushed to send a cup of tea floating his way.

“I know.”

Narcissa Malfoy was one of the few who had managed to break through her personal cloud of grief and remain positive, something which Draco despised and envied. She remained the image of his mother before the war, before their lives went to shit; hair coiffed to perfection, gown pressed, and her face beautiful and devoid of the shadows and tightness that plagued it during what was easily the worst times of their previously-shallow lives.  His mother clung to a false sense of normalcy that Draco begrudged for not being able to accept himself. She had even decided to completely redecorate the Manor in what Draco privately coined an attempt of ridding the place of the abysmal memories that so plagued it during those past few months and which Narcissa delicately referred to as “starting anew”. The dark color schemes were replaced with various shades of pastel, robins-egg blues and ivories, and gauzy, sheer curtains replaced previously heavy velvet drapes. 

Even now with slivers of sunlight trickling in through the window, Draco couldn’t feel at ease in this room where so many unspeakable horrors occurred. His mother gave him a knowing look, and he quickly preoccupied himself with drinking his tea to avoid whatever conversation she wanted to start. “You look like your father.” A hint of something that was harder to read than approval and something else—sadness?—flickered in her eyes for the briefest of moments. Draco gave another curt nod.

“I know.” For a moment she looked as though she would scold him for repeating himself, and Draco dearly wished she would. The action would bring some much needed normalcy back into his life, as opposed to the dull repetition that often accompanied these forced, scripted conversations. He felt as though his whole life was a script these days and maybe it was. Maybe Voldemort had killed him during the war, and as punishment for his sins whatever god existed doomed him to a life on an infinite loop, where everything was almost fine except for the fact that he still had the urge to jump out of his skin and scream until his throat went raw.

Growing out his hair wasn’t something he did because of a desire to look like, or be, his father. Becoming Lucius Malfoy was a dream Draco became disillusioned with after seeing the man’s obsession with power, and a dream that was ultimately abandoned after Draco realized the extent he would go to in order to obtain said power. These days, Draco doubted his own father wanted to be Lucius Malfoy – or he would, but self-awareness had never been his strong point. He liked to think he made up for the self-awareness that his father lacked; he was, in any case, aware of the fact that he grew his hair not out of any love for his father, but for the simple fact he no longer cared enough about himself or anything in general to do anything to stop it. It was a small acknowledgement, but he supposed every step counted.

His mother was the one on house arrest, and yet he remained a shadow of his former self.

The sound of her clearing her throat – she even made that sound refined – shook him from his thoughts, and Draco arched an eyebrow at her as she lazily flicked her wand, sending an envelope floating towards him, where it landed delicately on his lap. He glanced down at it, then back at her, unsurprised to find her face impassive in the Malfoy mask she nearly always wore. “Mother—“

She held a small hand up, silencing him. “It’s from your father.”

Draco felt the sudden urge to grit his teeth or pinch the bridge of his nose. Or have a very strong drink, despite it being still quite early in the morning. “Yes, Mother, I am _aware_ of that—“

“Are you? You are aware of it, and yet you deny your father the courtesy of starting a correspondence with him while he rots in that horrid island?” Her voice was low, controlled, but her eyes were hard with a cold fury Draco hadn’t seen from his mother in quite some time. This time he did grit his teeth, swearing lowly as he tore into the offending piece of parchment.

All of his father’s letters were variations of the same: begging his son to get in contact with former Death Eaters and sympathizers, assuring them that although their side took a devastating loss, this was not the end. They would see that, of course, once they pooled together any gold to bribe him out, or orchestrated an attack. There were no longer any dementors in Azkaban, but Draco surmised that the knowledge that one was to serve a five-to-life sentence alone was enough to drive a man mad.

A quick scan of the letter told him this week’s desired contact was Crabbe. Draco sighed and set the letter down. “Mother,” he began slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose and begging whatever god there was to give him strength. “You cannot allow him to write about such—such plans in these letters. Surely you understand that. He needs to understand that as well.”

Narcissa raised a dubious brow at him, an expression that Draco saw himself in. “Surely you understand that these _plans_ are foolish and will never come to fruition, Draco?” She spoke to him the way one would to a small child, and Draco scoffed.

“Do you think that’s how the Ministry would see it if they got their hands on these letters, Mother?” he countered, rather harshly dismissing a poor, squash nosed elf who was carrying a tray of breakfast sandwiches towards him. “If that were to ever happen, are you aware of the consequences? We would find ourselves in a cell beside Father’s!”

Narcissa’s mouth opened as though to refute that before she pursed her lips shut, her face closed off. She was angry, Draco knew, but he was right. He didn’t consider himself right all the time in the cocky way he once would have; those days were long passed and replaced with a wise weariness that settled over his bones. The type of jaded knowledge one knows from experiencing things no sixteen, seventeen, eighteen year old should have to. He watched as his mother’s face tightened and for a moment he feared she might cry before she blinked, long and hard, and her mouth opened to wordlessly form the spell which had the letter shooting right into her hands where she clutched it, pale knuckles turning even whiter.

Her hands shook. “Power is an addiction, Draco.” He refused the urge to scoff and tell her he knew. That she was telling this to the wrong person. “And when that is no longer sufficient, then you become addicted to the thrill of it.” Draco watched as she took a deep breath, her fingers playing with the worn edge of the parchment, her voice only slightly unsteady when she continued. “He still loves us, Draco. He always has, through everything.”

She gazed up at him, crystalline eyes imploring as though begging him to believe her. Draco couldn’t. Memories flashed of a man with hair long like his, calling him into his study and allowing him to have a sip of brandy in what was a secret delight. A man who watched his son play tag with Pansy in the gardens and always figured out Draco’s next moves based on the way his eyes would dart to wherever he planned on running next before subsequently complaining about being caught to his father, who would smirk at Draco’s pout. That was how his father showed him how to school his emotions and refrain from having them flit across his face, teaching him a lesson he would always cherish. Never show your hand.

That was his father; the man Draco loved and knew loved him in return. 

He watched silently as his mother smoothed her robes and stood up, running her fingers over the parchment as she crossed over to the fireplace. The flames’ shadows danced across her face and Draco was momentarily reminded of his mother’s insane sister before pushing that thought far, far away. She glanced at the letter with an expression torn between fondness and anguish for the briefest of seconds before tossing it into the flames, where it caught fire and crumpled into ash almost immediately. Within seconds she returned to her place on the sofa opposite him, crystalline eyes boring into his as she raised her teacup to her lips.

Draco loved his mother dearly. Sometimes he just wished he could understand her.

* * *

 

The letter from Potter arrived seventy seven days, five hours, thirty minutes, and twenty six seconds after the last Battle. The scops owl arrived with an obnoxious cry, throwing its tiny body against the window until his mother _tsked_ and spelled the window open, letting the irritating creature into the dining room where it promptly dropped the letter in front of Draco and narrowly avoiding getting feathers in his coq au vin but effectively ruining the dinner between him and his mother. Draco scoffed; Narcissa observed the scene with interest and, if he didn’t know better, amusement.

“You haven’t told me you’ve made a friend, Draco.”

“Because I haven’t, Mother.” Snapping at his mother made him feel petulant, but he had no choice when it came to matters that she didn’t understand. Such as the fact that this rat with wings in their dining room belonged to the Weasel, or that Draco barely had _friends_ anymore. Crabbe perished in the fire that nearly got all of them killed, Theo went into hiding, and Goyle was never really a friend in the ways that mattered in the first place; Blaise and Pansy were the only ones he missed and even then, they deserved a chance to move on from the war and remain untethered to him, a known Death Eater. Blaise decided to stay neutral anyway, but Pansy, bless her, kept her own interests at heart until the very end. The moral outrage of everyone when she offered Potter outraged him in turn, because who were all of these righteous beings to ridicule the idea of escaping as unscathed as possible in a war? Though he tried not to dwell on that too long, because if he was being honest with himself, the idea of Pansy’s offer being successful terrified him and was a nightmare he had quite often and something he would never, ever admit to anyone.

With a long-suffering sigh he took the letter, reaching for it by its corners with the pads of his fingers as though it was cursed and in a way he supposed it was; he had no doubt that the letter wasn’t from the Weasel as he lacked the class to send an actual letter and would likely send a howler instead. Meaning that this had to have come from Potter, and a quick glance at the crumpled parchment told Draco it had. He would recognize that chicken scratch Potter called handwriting anywhere, not that he would ever admit it; knowing the handwriting of someone you were supposed to hate was a terribly intimate thing, and in all honesty, quite pathetic. In the wrong context it could almost sound _sentimental_. Draco scowled at the thought, his frown deepening and irritating rising as he read through the letter.

_~~Malfoy~~ Draco, _

_~~Thanks for~~ ~~I just wanted to than-~~ I hope you and your family are doing alright. ~~I know this is a bit weird~~ ~~I’m probably the last person you want to hear from~~ I never got the chance to say it after everything, but thanks for giving me your wand. ~~You didn’t have to do that~~ It certainly sped up the process. I’m glad that you weren’t convicted of anything, but I’m sorry your mum got put under house arrest. I can try and see if there’s anything I can do to help?  I know we were never the best of mates but too much has happened. It’s got to end sometime. Maybe one day we could go out and get a pint together, if you’re feeling up to it. _

_Harry_

_The trial._ The trial that left his mother bound to her home, his father rotting in a prison cell, and Draco halfway to losing the plot all while not caring whether he did or not; prison surely would have been a better choice, if only because he could have died faster if not instantly. He had his freedom but he was practically under self-imposed house arrest regardless, and he found that being completely apathetic about his existence in front of his mother was unbecoming and left him laden with guilt. He didn’t know why Potter spoke for him at the trial and nearly sacrificed his Savior credibility to the Wizengamot. Potter had rushed in, the nest he called his hair messy as always, and testified on Draco and his mother’s behalf. Some of the testimony – such as Potter claiming Narcissa Malfoy had saved his life – Draco surmised was completely falsified, but the whole experience was largely an out-of-body one for him and he doubted any surprise was evident on his face. Him and Potter had stared at each other the whole time, Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line rather than his usual sneer, Potter staring at him with an intense gaze that was heightened by those blazing eyes. At the end of it when Draco was declared a free man he had no doubts that Potter was expecting him to express his thanks or even just spark up small talk, but Draco had simply nodded and left, leading his mother from the courtroom.

His mother, who gave a polite nod and small, grateful smile to Potter before exiting.

Moving to crumple the letter from The Boy Who Didn’t Know When To Leave Him Alone, Draco withheld a sigh as he noticed there was another page of it. Two pages? What more did Saint Potter want – to gloat over saving him from the fiendfyre, or perhaps express backhanded condolences about his father? Draco almost sagged with relief when he noted it was addressed towards his mother and waved it towards her, where she accepted it with interest and reserved appreciation. How strange. Quicksilver eyes narrowed as he watched his mother read over the letter, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Mr. Potter is quite a well-mannered young man, despite my earlier reservations toward him,” she noted, setting the letter down and sending a small bowl of owl treats towards the bird, who eagerly accepted them. Draco snorted at the idea of Potter being anything but a completely obnoxious git; she ignored him. “I certainly never expected him to write me a letter thanking me for what occurred in the forest. Much less to inquire about my wellbeing in the aftermath of everything! Of all the things…” she trailed off with a light sigh, and Draco knew she was no doubt flattered by the notion. He would have even scoffed at it, were he not so preoccupied with the concept of Potter thanking his mother for something that happened in the Forest.

Meaning that Potter hadn’t lied.

It should have relieved Draco, but somehow the idea angered him even more. Potter lying was something he could handle, something that was to even be expected when one considered he was afflicted with a serious savior complex. Of course Saint Potter felt that he had to do something to help his family after Draco’s wand apparently helped him win the war; the Golden Git would never lie on his own, as he and his Gryffindor friends were no doubt above such things, but he felt the unshakeable desire to repay the favor and become even more of a martyr by being forced to lie under oath. Draco could have handled that, even if the repercussions would have undoubtedly led to him having a cell next to his father.

“Darling,” Mother’s soft voice shook him out of his thoughts and he realized he was glaring at a spot on the table. He molded his features into their usual mask before he met her eyes. “Perhaps it is time to let all of this animosity go. I’m under the impression that Mr. Potter saved your life, darling, didn’t he?” Her voice was deceptively casual, but there was a knowing glint in her eye that Draco hated.

“Yes,” he snapped, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. “Yes, Mother, he did. He saved my life out of obligation, because Merlin forbid Saint Potter allows _anyone_ to die! It surely wouldn’t do for his golden image, would it? Do you know why he even writes to us, Mother?” His mother remained calm and largely unaffected – perhaps that was the result of listening to his father’s mad plans over the course of their marriage – but Draco found that he couldn’t stop, once this anger rose in him, even though he really should and god, wasn’t it sad that Potter still had this effect on him despite not physically being present in his home? The thought had a sardonic laugh bubble out of his lips. “The only reason Potter writes us at all, Mother, is because he pities us. He’ll spout off some nonsense about _accepting everyone_ or _moving past our differences_ but it’s amazing how quickly he changes that tune the moment you don’t worship him. I refuse to be indebted to him. I’ve—we’ve—been owned before and we both experienced how well that turned out. You can continue on with being grateful towards him, Mother, but I refuse. I’m finally _free._ ” Draco felt the air leaving his lungs as quickly as it came in and realized his chest was heaving. He must look and sound absolutely manic, and this was definitely the most he’d shared with his mother post-war – the most he interacted with her in these past months, really – but it felt like a relief to get it all out, even if a small part of his mind insisted that he was being too hard on Potter.

He ignored the sympathy in his mother’s eyes and waved his wand, muttering a quick ‘incendio’ under his breath. Watching with satisfaction as what was formerly Potter’s letter remained now a pile of ash on the table, Draco turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

* * *

 

The _Prophet_ continued to report on almost exclusively Potter these days and Draco rolled his eyes as he came across yet another article written about him. This one claimed that he left the Girl Weasel for a Mystery Blonde. Draco recognized the pale hair and paler eyes that almost mirrored his as belonging to Luna Lovegood, who the _Prophet_ had apparently caught conversing with the Savior. The picture that accompanied the headline was one of Lovegood giving Potter’s hand what was no doubt a reassuring squeeze,  a dreamy smile on her face as the flash of the camera illuminated them. Potter looked livid, which that bint Skeeter took to mean he was guilty, naturally. Draco snorted and rolled up the paper, tossing it into a corner where he or the elves would vanish it later. He couldn’t believe the nerve of Skeeter, that talentless hack. Potter was unwaveringly loyal and there was no way he would leave the Weaselette for Lovegood; just last week there were rumors that Potter and _Granger_ were together, and—

Draco swallowed a groan. He was beginning to know entirely too much about Potter’s love life, or speculations of one, these days. He no longer ‘kept tabs’ on Potter – not that he ever had, really, he just enjoyed getting a rise out of him because it was all too easy and the Gryffindor was all too predictable – reading about his former nemesis gave him a sense of normalcy and that was it. The _Prophet_ also helped him keep track of the date and let him know what month it was, but that sounded far more pathetic than keeping tabs on Potter, although he didn’t want to ever be considered one of his fawning sycophants either.

Twelve days, nine hours, thirty six minutes, and twenty seconds had passed since he burnt Potter’s letter to a satisfying crisp. What should have been twelve days of peace was anything but as Potter, ever insistent, simply sent more letters to him which Draco promptly disposed of via fire while pointedly ignoring Mother’s clucks of disapproval. Potter had only sent three more letters so the remaining six days were quite peaceful, but Draco’s mood was soured all the same. It didn’t take much to do that these days.

A girlish shriek sounded suddenly from somewhere downstairs, and Draco felt himself go rigid, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at once. All too soon he was taken back to the days and nights where _he_ inhabited the Manor, times where Draco would hide in his room as the screams reached a crescendo and pray to whoever was listening that the madman his father worshipped wouldn’t force him to come out and join as punishment. Gripping his wand, he swallowed roughly and mustered all the courage he could to Apparate downstairs.

…where he was promptly faced with Pansy bloody Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, the former of which was hugging his mother so tightly Draco had the briefest fear they both might break something.

“Oh,” Blaise drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against one of the ivory pillars. He inclined his head in greeting to his old friend. “Look who’s decided to join us, Pans. I’m honored he’s deemed us worthy to grace with his presence.” 

Draco was too shocked to say anything, not that it mattered, because at that moment Pansy decided to release his mother from the death grip she was putting the poor woman under and spun around to meet Draco’s eyes. Her hair was no longer in that severe bob she favored, he noticed, and it reached her shoulders now. A silver hoop gleamed in her small upturned nose and accentuated it rather nicely.

“Draco Malfoy,” she breathed, before capturing him in a bone crushing hug that Draco was powerless to fight against. “Are you aware that it’s been _months_ , Dray, and you haven’t written us once? Nor have you taken the time out of your busy life to floo us? I’m so glad that we were only house-mates and not, I don’t know, friends for our whole lives or anything of the sort!” Judging by Blaise’s expression, Draco surmised he must look very stupid right now with the way his mouth kept opening and shutting. He felt Pansy’s slight frame shaking in his arms and he realized, with a stab of guilt, that through the ear-splitting shrieks she was crying.

“Pans,” he began, but that only made her sob harder. Narcissa had left sometime during this touching, and rare, display of emotion, and he was glad for that. “Pans, look—“

“Oh, don’t even start, Draco! We didn’t hear anything from you, not even after the trial! I thought you _died_!”

“Enough!” He pulled away from her and placed his hands on her thin shoulders, heart clenching at the rivulets of black that ran down her cheeks from her mascara. Pansy was one of his oldest friends – before Blaise, even – and the time without her hurt him just as much. Long before Hogwarts up until the war it was almost Pansy and him, against the world. He trusted her with secrets that he told no one else, not even Blaise. “I was trying to…save the both of you.” ‘Save’ was admittedly a cringe-inducing word to use, and at Pansy’s incredulous expression he hurried to continue. “Being seen with me would have done irreparable damage to your image, Pansy, and that was the last thing you needed after your brilliant suggestion before the battle. You and Blaise remained neutral during everything. I was selfish enough, and I refused to be selfish and drag the both of you down with me.” Wetness on his cheeks told him he was crying too and Merlin, this was not how Draco pictured this reunion going.

The sharp, spicy smell of the cologne he knew Blaise favored wafted over to him, and Draco nearly rolled his eyes at the smirk on his friends face. No doubt Blaise was using this unusual emotional display for future blackmail purposes. “I believe what our friend Draco is trying to say,” he drawled, sidling closer to the pair, “is that he was attempting to go about this the Gryffindor way. So chivalrous, Draco, looking out for our wellbeing. Did Potter teach you that?” And then Blaise joined them in their embrace, though distant still, keeping an arm on the small of Pansy’s back and discretely wrapping the other around Draco’s waist in a way that he hadn’t done since fifth year, during their series of ‘experiments’.

Pansy cleared her throat and pulled away, huffing a laugh. “Alright, enough of that. Draco, darling, if you ever breathe a word of seeing me cry to anyone…” 

“Yes, yes, whatever you say, Pans—Salazar, Parkinson, what are you _wearing_?”

Pansy smirked and twirled, showing off her outfit. “It’s Muggle, isn’t it daring?” Indeed it was. Draco knew gaping was unbecoming, but he had never associated ‘Muggle clothing’ with Pansy Parkinson. The clothing, or lack thereof, seemed to be painted on; her black top was cropped and exposed her shoulders, while her skirt was leather and Draco was sure if she made any sudden movements he would see everything. A thin black choker adorned her neck, a silver hoop dangling from it. The only garment he recognized were the stockings, which were topped off with heavy black boots. Blaise, he noticed, was dressed more casually in a smart button down Oxford and slacks.

Blaise eyed him critically before exchanging glances with Pansy, who promptly did the same. “This change of style certainly as interesting as it is drastic,” he deadpanned, a smirk tugging at his lips, before brushing invisible lint off of his own slacks.

“Merlin, Draco, you look terrible.” Pansy’s dark eyebrows knitted together as she took in his appearance as though for the first time. Maybe it was, since she calmed down considerably since arriving. Draco knew he looked terrible – he hadn’t put care or effort into his appearance in Salazar knew how long. He bathed when he had the motivation to (which he would never admit to Pansy or Blaise), but he had been largely living in pajamas and foregone brushing his hair these days. The last time he managed to look presentable was the trial and even that paled in comparison to the Draco Malfoy of old.

He wasn’t taking care of himself, but they still managed to wound what little remained of his pride. “Yes, because you and Blaise prepared me for your arrival and gave me ample time to allow myself to appear presentable. In fact, I believe I was getting ready to go to bed.”

“It’s six p.m., Draco. It’s evening.”

Draco glared at Blaise, who looked him over again and gave a nonchalant shrug. Pansy made herself comfortable on the couch, examining her long, black fingernails. “Well I’ll be oh so generous and allow you time now, then. Get ready, Dray, we’re going out.”

* * *

 

‘Going out’ turned out to mean Apparating from the Manor to an alleyway somewhere in the middle of Muggle London. Draco took in his surroundings and the filth surrounding them; it wasn’t too different from Knockturn Alley if the stench of sex, liquor, and piss was anything to go by. He bit back a smirk as Pansy complained about landing right in the middle of animal waste before quickly checking to see if he suffered a similar fate.

“Where the fuck are we?” Draco watched as a rat scurried across heaps of garbage bags and was unwillingly reminded of Wormtail. He repressed a shudder. 

Blaise snorted and moved to brush off imaginary dust off his pants. Or maybe he had suffered the same fate as Pansy; it was too dark to tell. “We came here to kill you, obviously.” His full lips curled in distaste as he gave another glance at their surroundings. “Are you quite done, Pansy? I wasn’t quite prepared to spend the evening lolling about in such a grand setting.” It was Draco’s turn to snort now, which had him and Blaise exchange smirks, and had Pansy grumbling under her breath but leaving the alley, all the same.

Their actual destination, it turned out, was a pub not too far from the alleyway. It was a small, hole in the wall location, the words “FISHPONDS PUB” illuminating from the garish neon sign. The lights bathed Pansy’s pale face in red as they came to a halt outside of it, Draco eyeing the building skeptically. Apparently this was some sort of routine for her and Blaise, as neither looked too surprise at the state of the pub, but to say he wasn’t shocked at this turn of events would have been a lie. His two best friends willingly being in and visiting the muggle world was strange enough; if it were to happen, though, he had always envisioned them venturing out somewhere…posher. Somewhere that the muggle equivalent of purebloods would go.

The sound of Pansy clearing her throat shook Draco out of his thoughts and he realized they were waiting for him. She raised an expectant dark eyebrow before inclining her head towards the door and so they all entered, Draco trailing after Blaise with a sense of trepidation. He didn’t know what to expect, even though there was no way for the people there to figure out he was a wizard, but he still had little to no experience socializing with muggles.

The inside of the pub was lively and loud, music blaring from a hulking machine in the corner. Every so often one of the patrons would put coins – Muggle money – inside to choose a different song, which Draco found as odd as he did fascinating. Blaise used something called a _bank card_ to buy a round of shots and pints for the trio and Draco found his eyes drawn to the shiny, laminated black square. “I’m planning on studying finance and that means having experience with every type of currency, whether I find it interesting or not,” Blaise had sniffed when he caught Draco looking, much to Pansy’s amusement. The simple concept of Blaise using muggle money – or some strange money card – confirmed that this was a normal occurrence for him and Pansy. Draco felt something in his gut twist at it, the feeling of being left out despite not actually reaching out towards them over the summer. He watched as his friend gave his most charming smile to the bartender, an older lass of about forty, before they left to find a booth for themselves.

“So,” Draco began, trailing a finger down the edge of his pint glass. Drops of moisture had appeared on it thanks to condensation, and his finger left a clear trail in its wake. He had always frowned upon the thought of needing liquid courage, but that was before he lived through a war, and so now he believed it was obliged to him in a sense. He was relieved to find that there was no difference between muggle and wizarding liquor. Blaise’s dark eyes regarded him with interest over his own pint glass, while Pansy looked close to telling him to get on with it, with the way she was tapping her fingers against the table.

“So…” she prodded impatiently, the tapping becoming more incessant, before Blaise patted her hand reassuringly.

“Give him time, love. I think our old boy is feeling, shall we say, _sentimental_.” Draco rolled his eyes at his leering before regarding the other boy curiously as Blaise nudged a shot glass filled with an amber liquid towards him. “Drink this. We’ll try not to laugh if you go too maudlin on us.” Draco raised an imperious brow at his friend but accepted the shot nonetheless, almost greedily, and grimaced as it burnt his throat, warming his chest almost immediately. Blaise took his own shot and knocked it back impeccably, as though it was water, and Pansy drank hers with apprehension.

“Fucks sake, Zabini, what did you put in there?”

“I didn’t put anything in there, my dear Draco. I may have convinced sweet Bessie up there to give us the best whiskey she had in house tonight, though.” Blaise leaned back and grinned at him, his array of perfectly white teeth on display. Cocky bastard.

Pansy waved her hand impatiently. “Enough about that, what were you going to say?” Draco smirked at her impatience; he was tempted to make her wait for that now, if only his own curiosity wasn’t eating at him on the matter.

“What I was going to _say_ ,” he drawled, taking a hearty sip of his pint before continuing, “is, well, since when has this been going on? What made you decide to venture into the Muggle world, least of all here?” he dropped his voice at the last part, leaning forward so that the other two could hear him over the music and noises of the bar.

Blaise considered the question for a moment. Draco saw something dark flitter through his eyes before it was replaced by the usual amusement and something unreadable that after all these years Draco was still never able to define. Zabini took nothing seriously, an aspect of his personality that annoyed Draco at times, and much of that amusement was derived from laughing at you rather than with you. “The thrill of anonymity,” he finally settled on as an answer, gesturing with his hand theatrically. Fucking dramatic Italians, Draco thought with a fond shake of his head. “You can’t seriously tell me that it doesn’t appeal to you, Draco.”

And oh, it did. It did so much it hurt, even though Draco supposed he made his bed with his choices and now he was to lie in it. There was nothing more he would have loved to do than walk down Diagon or Hogsmeade, arm-in-arm with Pansy, Blaise beside them, talking idly about their families and school gossip and just taking the piss with one another. Those days were long gone, and he didn’t even properly grieve them; he wished it didn’t have to be that way. He hadn’t ventured back into Diagon since the trial and that had gone as well as he thought it would – an Auror was in charge of escorting him and his mother, and Draco still got spat on, called names, and had hexes thrown at him. He wasn’t keen on going back again, at least not now. Maybe not ever, even though the thought killed him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Pansy reached out and squeezed his hand. “I suppose that in the aftermath of everything, it showed that we’re not too good to be here. We’re not above anything.” She looked as though admitting that physically pained her, and Draco sympathized. He hadn’t hated Muggles for a long time; maybe he never did and that was just another way his father’s influence had failed him. The thought made him uneasy; could there have been hope for him, if things were different? Perhaps if he made friends with the right people – but who were those mythical people?

 _A green eyed boy with glasses and a scar,_ his mind supplied rather unhelpfully. Draco clenched his jaw and willed the thought away, locking it into one of the corners of his mind where he tried to never revisit.

Blaise downed the rest of his pint and slammed it on the table, causing it to wobble much to Pansy’s annoyance. He gave a slow, predatory grin. “Alright, alright. That’s enough Hufflepuff antics for tonight. Now it’s time for more shots!”

* * *

 

After that evening, Pansy and Blaise were around almost as much as old times if not more. On days that they weren’t at the Manor, Draco would Floo to the Parkinso’s home, or occasionally he and Pansy would visit one of the Zabini’s sprawling Italian villas. Going out became a routine for them and on the days that they couldn’t be bothered to leave the ancestral property of wherever they were staying, they would simply stay in and drink there.  Draco found that he practically lost his obsession with the date and counting down the days since the final battle, as he was no longer a recluse and no longer needed to depend on that or any Prophet articles about a certain bespectacled git to know what day it was.

Drinking was something he came to love. His father was never one to indulge terribly in alcohol and instead chose to opt for a single glass to sip on during late nights in his study; sometimes he would allow Draco to join him, but as he got older that happened less and less. Even when the Manor was under occupation his father didn’t turn to drinking and for that Draco was glad; any drunken mistakes would have no doubt resulted in Voldemort having the heads of his whole family. It was one of the few things Lucius Malfoy had done right.

In the past, at parties in the dungeons or even at the galas his family was invited to before everything was destroyed, Draco would drink little. A glass of Firewhiskey or two during parties to appear sociable and not prudish, graciously accepting champagne flutes at balls his mother threw so as not to come off as rude. He never used to drink to get drunk – control over himself was something he valued and the idea of being visibly intoxicated, in public or otherwise, was uncouth and disturbing. He wasn’t a common drunkard – the very idea was preposterous.

That was before he lived through a war. Before everyone believed he escaped unscathed (and that was a nice way of putting it; others believed he and his family somehow manipulated someone in the Wizengamot to get off so lightly) and before the emptiness that started to build in his Sixth Year snowballed to the point where it blanketed his body, wore down his bones. Being with Blaise and Pansy brought him happiness for the moment, as did drinking. It gave him the opportunity to forget everything that they all went through at least for a little while, to go out to Muggle clubs and pubs where no one knew a thing about the three of them or that they were practically pariahs in their own communities. When the alcohol warmed his chest he felt himself becoming looser with each drink, as though the darkness was seeping out of him. He was able to feel emotions other than anger and despair, he was able to laugh at his friends’ jokes, he was able to _communicate_ and live and have something to live for.

After waking up he’d just down a Hangover Cure and then when the emptiness began to settle again, he’d wait for Blaise or Pansy to reach out. He knew they felt the same way he did. Sometimes Pansy would Floo in breathlessly, chest heaving, and tell him, “Let’s go out” in a tight voice.  Or Blaise would owl him, letters with nothing but ‘ _Drinks tonight?_ ’ written on them in his elusive cursive.  It wasn’t healthy, of course, but as the nights of laughter blurred and Draco felt that warmth bloom in his chest, a feeling that he believed was long gone, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It would all be gone in the morning, and then they would just do it all again.

* * *

 

“We’re meeting someone tonight,” Pansy stated in a tone that brokered no argument as she sent clothes to and from her expansive wardrobe, trying to decide which outfit to wear. Draco made a noise of agreement and Blaise raised an eyebrow, clearly curious. They were at Pansy’s mansion, which was gloriously empty as her parents decided to escape the post-war fallout by traveling through Eastern Europe and leaving their daughter in charge of the estate in their absence. Draco was sure that ‘being in charge of the home’ didn’t equate to Pansy throwing lavish parties for three and turning the residence into a den of hedonism, but he enjoyed it too much to ever bring that up.

“And who are we meeting?” Draco asked, flipping through an article of Witch Weekly that Pansy left on her bed. Merlin, he couldn’t believe she read this tripe. As tempting as ’10 Ways to Use Your Wand Hand’ sounded – and he would definitely read enough of the article to commit it for later use – he feared he would have to disown Pansy as a friend over this. He said as much, leaving her to flip him a finger as a result.

“Not Potter,” Blaise deadpanned before trying not to wince as Draco’s Stinging Hex caught him.

Pansy pulled out a low-cut dress made of sparkly gold fabric and held it against her, ignoring Draco’s disapproving headshake. “Oh, just an old friend,” she murmured evasively, giving a small twirl. “No one to get too excited over, darling, so don’t fret about it.” Draco scoffed. He definitely wasn’t fretting.

Thirty minutes later saw the three of them Apparating to a deserted alley in Muggle Chelsea. Despite the refinement of the area the alley still smelled of piss and sex and vomit, much to Draco’s dismay. Pansy didn’t Apparate straight into animal dung this time, so there was that small comfort – a comfort which Blaise wasted no time in reminding her of when she complained about the nausea that often accompanied Apparation.

The club they were going to tonight – The Pink Lady – was one of the posher ones they had visited this summer, as they mostly stuck to dives and neighborhood pubs. The Pink Lady, however, looked proper; there was an upstairs and a downstairs, the booths were clean and the music was better, and there were individual rooms where you could play with something called a karaoke machine which Pansy explained you sing into.

“The drinks are expensive here,” Pansy observed, her nose wrinkling. Draco nodded in agreement. He would really have to ask Blaise how he went about getting that bank card.

“It’s not like you’re paying, are you doll?” Blaise snorted, but sliding his card to the bartender and ordering for all of them regardless. “Next time you’ll just have to pay me back in that elf wine your mother loves so much.” Pansy rolled her eyes but laughed anyway as they headed to their booth.

Six shots and the world was fuzzy to Draco as he headed towards the loo. The loo was thankfully empty with no line, and as Draco splashed water on his face in an attempt to sober himself up, he was suddenly aware of the presence of someone behind him. He stiffened but tried to remain casual, his grip on the edge of the sink tightening.

“Malfoy?” Pale eyebrows furrowed as he tried to place that voice. It was familiar but not at the same time, and as Draco turned around and took in the man before him he found himself even more puzzled.

“Do I know you?” Hopefully this wouldn’t be an anti-Death Eater or anti-pureblood vigilante. This would be a sad way to die, Draco thought, and one that the Prophet would have a field day with. Ex-Death Eater killed in a Muggle club bathroom. He cringed internally.

The dark haired man in front of him stepped forward, a smirk on his thin lips. “Ah, Draco, I didn’t think you’d forget me so fast.” In a flash the stranger took out his wand and pointed it as his own face, leaving Draco to watch as the glamour wore off. Dark hair was replaced with artfully tousled sandy tresses, the thin mouth filled out, and his face narrowed. A hint of teeth grazed the full lower lip and Draco realized he was staring into the face of Theodore Nott.

“Nott? How--?” he spluttered indignantly, and he just knew his eyes must have gone unattractively wide. Nott’s smirk widened and he chuckled, clearly amused by the whole thing. “You’ve been—everyone says you’ve disappeared, you tosser!”

At that, Nott chuckled again, shrugging nonchalantly. “I did,” he admitted, hazel eyes boring into Draco’s, and Draco felt that this was a test of some sort. He didn’t appreciate it. “Disappeared, ran off, it’s all the same. I live among Muggles now.” There was an edge to Nott’s voice as though daring him to say something rude about the circumstances, but Draco said nothing. How could he? The very thought of looking down on Muggles now after everything was laughable.

Nott looked pleased that Draco passed whatever assessment he was giving him. “You’re with Zabini and Pansy. I saw them earlier. They know I frequent here a lot, but I don’t think they found me yet.” Suddenly it all made sense – this was the old friend Pansy wanted them to meet tonight. He wondered why she knew about Theo and never told him and Blaise. Draco meant to ask that question, the words burning on the tip of his tongue, but Nott continued. “I was just in here to, ahem, have some fun before I go back out.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to entertain yourself, Nott, as I have no desire to.” Draco drawled, leaning back against the cool mouth of the sink.

“That’s not the kind of fun I meant. I don’t swing that way as much as you might wish I did,” Theo shot back with a toothy grin, fishing for something in his pocket. He held a small vial of clear liquid in his hand and held it out for Draco to see. “I meant this.”

Draco pursed his lips, eyebrows furrowing in bemusement as he looked at the vial. “Alihotsy,” Theo clarified proudly, his grin widening. “I tweaked it myself. There’s some other shit in there, but alihotsy is the main ingredient.” Draco suddenly felt all too aware of everything, and looked up from the vial to find Nott’s wand pointed at him. His mouth opened, indignant at the use of a Sobering Charm on him, but Nott shook his head, infuriating grin still on his lips. “You, mon amie, will be embarking on this journey with me.”

He eyed the vial skeptically, affecting a bored look at the man in front of him. Truthfully Draco was impressed, but he would never admit that to Nott. “And what does this do?”

“Surely Severus taught you what alihotsy does, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course he did, Nott, as you must be aware that I, unlike some of us, actually passed my Potions O.W.L. “

Nott had the grace to look embarrassed, though Draco doubted he actually was, and the grin was back. “I can’t explain to you what it does,” he whispered conspiratorially,  his fingers tightening around the vial. “It’s something you have to feel for yourself. Are you in?”

At Draco’s nod, Theo passed him the vial before fishing another one out for himself. They clinked them together in toast before downing them. It didn’t taste bad, much to his surprise; there was a faint drip that accompanied it after he swallowed, and the bitterness hung in the back of his throat. Draco gagged at the taste and noted Theo did no such thing; quite the opposite, he seemed to revel in it.

“Yes! That’s how you know this is some good fucking quality!” He rubbed his hands together before casting the glamour on himself again; an act that briefly unsettled Draco. “Do you feel it yet?”

Draco did feel it; his heart was certainly beating quicker, though he didn’t feel anxious or wrought with nerves. He felt…empowered was perhaps the wrong word, but he truly believed he was capable of anything at this moment. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and he wanted nothing more than to get out of the bathroom so he could dance, let the music flow through him, and tell his friends he loved them.

He was happy, he realized with a start. Even the word ‘happy’ felt like it paled in comparison to what he actually felt. No word seemed as though it could accurately describe the feeling but if he had to choose, he would say euphoric.

“I feel free.” He wasn’t even aware he said the words but apparently he had, because Nott’s new face broke into a huge grin. He slung an arm around Draco – something he would never permit, nor would Nott even attempt if both were sober – and nodded dreamily.

“And just think, Malfoy, this is only the beginning.”

* * *

 

The thing about riding the wave of euphoria is that after the illusion shatters, the feeling of emptiness comes roaring back tenfold. Draco didn’t tell anyone about how it physically burned, some days; Pansy and Blaise are wary enough of Theo’s ‘concoctions’, Pansy preferring to stick to alcohol and Blaise citing that the potions run the risk of damaging the magical core. Which sounds like a load of bollocks, but Draco would never dare tell them that as they’re worried enough already.

Not that him buying the potions from Nott was a problem. He didn’t have a _problem_. Craving the feeling wasn’t problematic if his friends didn’t want to deal with the Draco Malfoy they found that first day they went out, way back in the beginning of the summer.

Alihotsy was quickly becoming favored over alcohol, and Theo Nott was becoming his favored companion over Pansy and Blaise, an act which caused the pair much annoyance and distress. Not that Draco could find it in himself to care – a small part of him did, of course, but the larger, selfish part felt nothing at all about it. Alihotsy could offer him more than alcohol ever could, and with Theo came the potion that brought Draco so much happiness. He could drink it and for a few hours feel himself enveloped in tranquility without a care in the world.

It felt like floating. Like walking through clouds.

What he wouldn’t give, he thought each time he and Nott drank it, to have this for a lifetime.

One night Nott rushed into the loo of The Pink Lady, practically radiating excitement. He was absolutely twitching with it, Draco noticed, and he hoped that this was worth it. It better be good; he was waiting in the bathroom for at least ten minutes, ignoring leering looks from drunken men.

“Nott,” he greeted waspishly, trying to keep his jaw from clenching. He noticed he got irritated if he didn’t have the potion for a while, a fact which Pansy tried to exploit in order to convince him it was unhealthy. Pansy, as much as he loved her, didn’t understand – she hadn’t lost everything, like he did. She didn’t live with the fact that she was weak. A coward. _Disgraced_.

And if she did, he had no doubt in his mind that she wouldn’t crave something which gave her a few hours of normalcy. Excuse him for chasing the feeling.

“Draco!” Nott was positively vibrating with nervous energy. He was shaking as he looked up at Draco, his hazel eyes completely overtaken by black. “I found a way, Draco, I found a way to make it better. It’s stronger. You’re going to love it like this, I reckon everyone will. Salazar’s fucking pants, I’ve never had a batch this strong before!” Trembling hands reached into faded denim pockets and pulled out a clear pouch of purple powder. Draco squinted at it.

“Is that—“

“Yes. I thought to myself, what if I grind up the alihotsy? Would that change the properties of it? Would it weaken it, or increase the potency?” Nott gave a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. He grimaced. “Sorry. I’m trying to lay off the ciggies. But Merlin, you’ve got to try this, Draco.” At Draco’s dumbstruck expression, he clarified, “You’re ‘spose to snort it.”

How unrefined.

The thought came and went, because as much as the act of snorting anything was unrefined, Draco couldn’t deny the potency of it. It was _strong._ The drip materialized in his throat in an instant and he almost laughed at the memory of how he gagged at it, what felt like a lifetime ago. The drip was bitterer than that of the potion, which testified to its potency. He felt his heartbeat quicken, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and the floating sensation overtake him. There was the tranquility he so chased and it was enough to drive a man mad, to keep chasing after this for a lifetime. But it was a madness he would gladly accept, over and over again.

He had to leave the bathroom. He had the desire to move, to dance, to feel his body _become_ one with the music, but his body felt curiously heavy. That was new, though not necessarily bad. He felt heavy with happiness and warm in it, like the clouds themselves materialized and spun around him.

“Draco?” Nott’s voice sounded so far away; why was he calling for him? “Shit, Draco, what the _fuck—_ “

The last thing Draco felt before his world went black was the sensation of floating. A lone feather, floating through the clouds.

* * *

 

The first thing he realized when he woke up was that he was in a bedroom that did not belong to him.

Anxiety shot through Draco as he tried to remember the events last night – nothing felt real, but he had a very real throbbing in his head. It felt like he was ran over by a band of hippogryffs. Forcing himself to remain calm – a quick pat down told him he still had his wand – he took in his surroundings. The seafoam walls told him he was in Pansy’s bedroom, and Pansy herself was in the doorway, staring stonily at him.

“Do you have any idea what happened last night, Draco? Any idea at all?” Draco knew his face was blank despite the anxiety rising in his throat like bile, and so he remained quiet lest he do something he would regret. Crying being one of those things, as he had the overwhelming desire to sob because something felt terribly wrong. “You’re such a fucking—I can’t!” Pansy broke off with a choked sob and turned away to collect herself. At hearing the commotion, Blaise walked in, taking in the scene before him before wrapping a comforting arm around Pansy.

“Since you seem to not remember last night, Malfoy, I’ll be so kind as to fill you in on the events,” Blaise drawled, the coldness in his eyes at odds with the perpetual drawl he favored. Draco felt a cold sweat begin to bead against his back. “You passed out in the bathroom. Theodore Nott was generous enough to leave you here, as opposed to, I don’t know, the bowels of Chelsea. In true Theodore fashion, he Disapparated before we could ask him what happened to you.” He fixed Draco with a hard look, and Draco noticed the other man’s brown skin was unusually pale. “You’re lucky to be alive. Forgive the Hufflepuff sentiment, but it’s true. We didn’t know what you did, or took, or drank. We weren’t about to throw you to the wolves at St. Mungo’s either.”

Draco felt numb. Everything was overwhelming and yet he couldn’t feel affected by it; if he did, he ran the risk of losing it completely, and he couldn’t have that. This couldn’t be happening to him – it felt like it was someone else, like he was not in his body, or he was watching this play out to someone else. The thought that things like this didn’t happen to Malfoy’s flitted through his brain for the briefest second, and he bit down on the hysterical laughter that rose in his throat at the thought. He hadn’t thought something along those lines in years, and between his father’s madness and his own impending doom, perhaps this was the new normal of standards for the Malfoys.

“My mother,” he mumbled absently, struggling to sit up among Pansy’s heaps of pillows. “Does my mother know what happened?”

“No,” Pansy shook her head, nails picking at a loose thread on her robes. “I think she assumes you’re staying with one of us.” She perched herself on the edge of the bed, her small hand entwining with his as she regarded him with concern. “This can’t keep happening, Dray.” The sympathy in her eyes was too much, and Draco found he had to look away.

“You are aware that you didn’t engage in the healthiest of pastimes either, aren’t you?” he knew he was being petulant, but that was one of his defense mechanisms; what he knew best. The selfish part of his mind that he so hated reassured him that he did the right thing in saying that, but common sense told Draco he didn’t – Pansy looked stricken, but her eyes were still sympathetic, and so Draco found himself putting up his Occlumency shields. He hated doing so – the lack of empathy was too much and he didn’t doubt that it caused some of his problems down the line – but in a sick way, it brought comfort as well.

“Of course we’re aware,” Blaise scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “But we didn’t end up passing out in a muggle club bathroom, Draco.” The tiredness in Blaise’s face was evident, and Draco could feel his stomach lurch in guilt at it. “Just…put it to an end now. Before it worsens.”

At barely eighteen years old, Draco already felt ancient. As though he’d lived a thousand lives in the relatively short, nearly two decades he was on this earth. It’s too much and not enough at once. The realization that he was a child during the war was not a new one, but during all those months in the Manor that he spent in solitude, he wondered if he would have made different decisions if he was older and wiser.

 _You’re older now._ Maybe not terribly wiser, given the circumstances, but the idea that he could change his future – that he has the power to – and not have it be dependent on his past is new to him.

“I have to go.” The words fell from his lips before he even thought them through, and Pansy’s eyes narrowed almost immediately. Her jaw is clenched, accentuating the sharpness.

“Go where?” And if Draco had it in him, he would be scared of the tone she used combined with her ever-narrowing eyes.

“I have to leave England, Pans.” He hadn’t planned on even voicing that yet, but he realized it’s true. He knew it was for the best. England was a constant reminder of what he had and what he had lost, a constant reminder of how exactly his own community saw him. A reminder of his failures in life, failures that kept mounting.

All constant triggers for the apathy to thrive, and Draco was beginning to realize he was sick of that. He greatly missed the way life was before and maybe he couldn’t have that back, but he could change what he did have.

“Where will you go?” Blaise spoke after a moment, his voice quiet.

“France. We have a chateau there. I could get my Potions Mastery.”

Blaise was quiet, but gave an imperceptible nod of his head; he approved. Pansy worried her lip between slightly crooked front teeth before enveloping him in a hug, the smell of her Chanel perfume invading his nostrils. “You’re going to Floo us. Every night. And we’ll Portkey out there on weekends. I always have enjoyed the Riviera.” Draco knew her well enough to know that Pansy was crying – the tears on his neck proved his point in any case – but it didn’t matter. He might have been, too.

There was a boy who everyone claimed survived the war, but the boy believed he was dead. And maybe that boy, the boy he was – selfish and cruel and unforgiving – did die.

But there was always room for a new beginning.

_Fin_


End file.
